


You demon

by j520j



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, wickerwell - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29353983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j
Summary: Just old people sad/comfort/fluffy!
Relationships: Maxwell/Wickerbottom (Don't Starve)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	You demon

Maxwell turned over on the bedroll, his fragile bones heated by the beefalo skin blanket and his belly full of stew. His daily duties were done and his mind was in peace. He should have been feeling in heaven after a good dinner and the opportunity to lie in a warm bed, but no. He was restless.

Beside him, Wickerbottom was huddled in the corner of the tent, her back to him. There wasn't much space inside for the two of them to sleep apart. If Maxwell reached out, he would touch her. And he was tempted to do that, to put his hand on the librarian's shoulder and offer her some comfort, but he was absolutely sure that gesture would be unwelcome. People don't usually feel comfortable with their kidnappers touching them.

Wickerbottom was crying softly.

At first, she tried to disguise it, keeping her sobs muffled by the tartan blanket she used only for herself. But it was useless. That day, although it was particularly quiet, it ended up stealing some of the elderly woman's sanity. Perhaps it was exactly because it was a quiet day than sudden depression can hit you: when you’re struggling to survive, to escape the monsters and avoid freezing, you don't have time to get depressed.

It was difficult for the woman to get some sleep. And when she did, the thoughts that haunted her mind before the slumber used to make her sleep restless. Sometimes she was too tired to even begin a reasoning trail, but other times (on good days) she couldn't help thinking about her past.

Maxwell knew that Wickerbottom had a family. She was a widow, but had children and grandchildren. And a good observer could see that she projected her grandchildren's image a lot on the children of the camp.

She always made sure that Webber, Wendy and Walter (and Abgail too) took classes every day. The children protested, saying that they "should be entitled to a weekend break" but the librarian always said that they barely had three hours of study a day, so they needed to make up somehow. At Constant, it was difficult to stay focused on anything for more than three hours straight due to the dangers that always lurked in the camp.

Wickerbottom was always very careful with children. When the survivors gathered the first supplies to start building the tents, she ordered the first one to be to shelter the little ones. They were more in need of protection from the weather and monsters. And she always demanded that they be the first to eat. Fair enough.

When the second tent was built, Wilson declared it to be "for the seniors". The use of the plural in the word implied that it would not only be for the librarian, but also for the magician, the two oldest members of the group.

"Nonsense, none of you will be comfortable sleeping next to me." Maxwell stated at the time, although the idea of being able to sleep under a roof pleased him. It would take a few weeks to gather resources to make tents for everyone. "I can manage..."

"You’re the only one among us who knows how to deal with dark magic, Mr. Carter." Wickerbottom said, bitterly. “Furthermore, the time he was on the throne of the nightmare weakened your body. Whether we like it or not, you also need to be taken care of. I don't mind sharing the tent with you.”

Ok then. It’s not as if the two of them were going to spend a lot of time together inside it, since the woman preferred to spend most of her time reading by the fire. She was barely able to get four hours of sleep every day, so the two of them barely stay next to each other in the tent. They didn't even have time to pay attention to each other's light snoring.

But that night, she was crying. And the magician could clearly hear her discreet sobs.

She would never do that in front of the other survivors, always preferring to stand her ground. And she was certainly the strongest mind in that place. She didn’t allow herself to be shaken by anything, not least by the terror of almost having her glasses broken, which would deprive her of the only pleasure she had left in that condemned world: the pleasure of reading.

Now and then she and Maxwell talked about literature. Before attempting a career as a magician, he tried to be an actor. For this reason he knew how to declaim parts of Shakespeare and Marlowe's plays by head.

"Do you like Faust?" he suggested once. "I remember most of Marlowe's version, although I prefer Goethe's."

"Please, no stories about demonic pacts, will you?"

“Oh, I see. My mistake.”

Despite all the disagreements, the two got along well. They had a cordial relationship, although they couldn’t say that they were friends.

Although most of Maxwell's hair was still raven black, they were almost the same age. They studied the same things, read the same things, and even though one grew up in United States and one in England, their cultures were similar enough to get to know the life the other lived well. And it was always comforting to talk to someone of your generation. It was easier to understand your life, your yearnings, your fears...

... your sorrows.

The magician propped himself up on his elbows and stretched his neck, trying to see the woman's face lying on her back to him. She was still crying, her gray hair down, her face marked by wrinkles accentuated by the redness of her eyes and nose. Wickerbottom looked so fragile, so helpless, a heartbreaking sight. Even for the black obsidian heart that was Maxwell's one.

"Ma'am?" this one whispered, still not approaching. "Are you... can I help you with anything?"

There was a pause. Her lips trembled, the response she was going to release dying on her lips. The woman just shook her head and squinted her eyes even more.

"If that helps..." he tried, sitting on the bedroll. "... I can get out of the tent to give you more privacy."

"No." she shook her head again. "It's cold outside, you're going to catch a cold."

"I'm not that fragile, Mrs. Wickerbottom."

"Says the man who almost died with a single blow of the tentacle last week."

“Hah, I was merely caught off guard. And we're talking about the cold, not monsters. Both God and the Devil know that not even Coccyto's cold scares me.”

"Humpf, you like to play this evil demon thing from time to time, don't you?" there was disappointment in her voice, but at least it was possible to see a glimpse of a smile. She put a hand over her eyes and wiped away a tear. "But... no, you don't need to leave the tent."

"Are you sure? If you are afraid of being alone, I can call one of the others to be here with you.”

"No." she sighed. "I prefer you."

Maxwell was silent. The tent was so quiet that he was able to hear his own heartbeat. And it accelerated subtly.

"Very well." he went back to bed, but this time much closer to the woman. "If you want to talk to pass time, know that I'm not sleepy."

“So, you should help yourself with some tea and honey to relax. You also need rest.”

“Bollocks. I’m not a child who needs eight hours of sleep. ”

"Language, Mr. Carter." the woman's voice sounded authoritative, but her smile widened. She was no longer crying, although she sniffed again.

Maxwell smiled. Even at the risk of suffering a (well-deserved) punch to the face, he moved closer and touched her shoulder with his long-fingered hand. The fabric of the plaid shirt was worn and the skin under it was a little cold. He pulled the beefalo fur blanket over her shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, the woman accepted the blanket, snuggling.

Her back was almost touching the magician's body and he wondered if he would be crossing the line already if he tried to wrap his arm around her waist. Fortunately, he didn’t have to make this decision, as the librarian herself pulled his arm over her waist, her thumb rubbing his hand in a soothing way.

Despite her boldness, her frame fell so small and fragile. Maxwell felt the urge to protect her. To offer her as much protection and comfort as possible. He did not want to see her cry again, for his life and soul. He pressed his nose to her neck, breathing in her scent. And she… giggled. Actually giggled, as a schoolgirl.

Oh, but neither was at school anymore, far from it. Neither was young. They were old enough to know what was coming next, without silly shyness.

“I know that I am responsible for your sadness in the first place, my lady. But... ” he tightened his embrace gently. “... but maybe I have a way to make you feel a little happier while staying here. If you want, I can show you. As Milton would say: it’s good to have companions of misfortune in hell.”

If there was anything that seemed to elevate Wickerbotton's spirit, it was literary references. And Maxwell recorded this information as the woman turned in his embrace to meet his eyes.

"Very well." she smiled even wider. "Show me, you demon."


End file.
